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Nate

I’d taught plenty of city people how to fish over the last few months. Hell, I’d taught grandmothers from Florida, tech bros from Seattle, and once, memorably, a group of sorority girls who spent more time taking selfies than casting.

Today, I was trying to teach this curvy stranger how not to impale herself or anyone who happened to get too close.

It was a battle I was pretty sure I was losing. Because despite her button nose and her can-do-attitude, she was terrible. Absolutely, spectacularly terrible.

She had the enthusiasm of a golden retriever and the grace of a drunken goose. Her line tangled with almost every cast. But she didn’t quit.

She planted her feet, adjusting her grip, and asked questions with that determined little furrow between her brows. No matter how many times the fly landed in a useless splash, she just muttered something under her breath and tried again. I respected the hell out of that.

And she listened. Really listened. When I showed her how to adjust her stance, or keep her wrist steady, she tried. Even asked questions about the river, the wildlife, the gear.

No one asked me questions anymore. Not unless it was about my leg. Or the scar.

But Ellie didn’t ask about either.

I pulled a spare t-shirt from my gear bag and put it on. I couldn’t exactly do this shirtless all day without looking like some kind of backwoods stripper. I caught her glancing over, and her eyes dropped straight to my chest before she snapped them away.

That look she gave me? Like I was a snack she wanted to unwrap slowly? Yeah, it did something to me I didn’t want to name. Hadn’t had the desire to name in a very long time.

Which was fair. I’d been stealing glances too.

The hem of my shirt hung past her hip, the neckline just loose enough to show a sliver of her pink sports bra underneath. It fucking matched the lure she’d hooked me with. I shouldn’t have noticed. But I did.

Every time she shifted or stretched, the fabric pulled across her chest, making it damn near impossible to concentrate on anything except the way her nipples pressed through the damp cotton.

I was starting to think she knew exactly what she was doing. And if she didn’t—God help me, that made it worse.

The cold water around my legs was the only thing keeping my body in check.

That and the very clear rule I had about clients. No flirting. No touching. No getting involved, even if the woman in question smelled like lilacs and vanilla and looked at me like I was something out of a wild frontier romance novel.

She’d booked me for the whole damn week—five more days of this sweet, smiling torture disguised as fly fishing.

I took the guide job to keep my sanity, not lose it.

It was supposed to be easy. Take some tourists fishing, nod politely while they fumbled through the motions, collect my check, and retreat to my cabin like the emotionally unavailable mountain man I was trying to be.

I didn’t plan on a stubborn city girl with zero fishing skills and a smile that made me forget why I liked being alone.

I damn sure wasn’t in the market for anything real.

Not after the last time.

My ex had left less than three months after the accident. Said she loved me, but the truth was she loved the version of me before. Before the scar. Before the limp. Before I stopped smiling and started locking everything behind walls no one could climb.

Trust wasn’t something I handed out anymore. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.

“Okay, let’s try something else. Remember what I told you about the ten-and-two position.”

She nodded earnestly, gripping the rod like it might escape. “Ten and two. Like a clock. Got it.” She smiled as she said it. All sweet and serious, like she wasn’t slowly driving me insane.

She hadn’t got it. Not even close.

Her cast went sideways, the line tangling in a low-hanging branch to our left. She stood there for a moment, staring at the mess she’d created, then looked back at me with a sheepish grin.

“That’s not where I was aiming.”

“No shit.” I waded over to untangle the line, trying not to think about how her laugh had hit me square in the chest. “You’re thinking too hard. Fishing isn’t about forcing it.”

“Everything in my life requires forcing it,” she said, following me through the water. “My coffee maker, my car, my dating life. Apparently, fishing is no different.”

I glanced at her. “Your dating life requires forcing?”

Pink crept up her neck. “Let’s just say I have a talent for picking men who need a lot of... encouragement.”

The way she said it—light, almost teasing—hit harder than it should’ve. Like she wanted me to ask what kind of encouragement. Like she knew exactly the kind I was thinking about.

Something twisted in my gut at the thought of her with other men. Which was ridiculous. I’d known her for all of four hours, and most of that time had been spent preventing her from committing accidental homicide with fishing equipment.

“Come here,” I said, positioning myself behind her again. “We’re going to try this differently.”

She stepped back against me, and I had to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.

Even through my shirt and hers, I could feel the warmth of her body.

Could smell whatever floral shampoo she used.

She tilted her head slightly when she leaned back—like she knew she was pressing against me.

Like she wanted to see what I’d do about it.

“Put your hands here,” I said, covering her hands with mine. My voice was strained, but I couldn’t help it. “Feel the weight of it.”

She leaned back slightly, and I caught a hint of something else under the floral scent. Something warm and uniquely her that made me want to bury my face in her neck and forget every though I’d had about keeping my damn distance and my hands to myself.

“Handle it like this?” she asked, adjusting her grip.

I shifted behind her, hard and growing harder, my body straining against my zipper.

She was talking about the rod in her hands—but mine was taking it personally.

Then she looked up at me with a smile that was way too innocent to be accidental, and I reconsidered.

Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing. Little menace.

“Yeah. Just like that.” I cleared my throat. “Now, smooth motion. Don’t jerk it.”

The double entendre hung in the air between us, and I felt her tense slightly. Then she laughed—really laughed—and the sound vibrated through her body into mine.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m apparently twelve years old when it comes to fishing innuendos.”

“It’s fine.” Though it wasn’t. Nothing about this was fine. I was supposed to be teaching her to fish, not thinking about all the other things I could teach her. All the ways I could make her laugh. All the sounds she might make if I—

“Nate?”

“What?”

“You’re gripping the rod pretty tight there.”

I looked down and realized my knuckles were white where I held the rod above her hands. I forced myself to relax, to step back slightly and give us both some breathing room.

“Try it on your own now,” I said.

She cast. The line went forward this time, landing in the water with a decent splash about twenty feet out. Not perfect, but not a complete disaster either.

“Better,” I admitted.

“Really?” Her face lit up like I’d just told her she’d won the lottery. “I mean, I know it wasn’t great, but—”

“It was better,” I repeated. “Keep trying.”

We spent the next hour like that. Her casting, me trying to ignore the way she bit her lower lip when she concentrated. Her asking questions about the stream, the fish, the mountains, and me answering despite myself.

She told me about her kindergarten class—twenty-two five-year-olds who apparently thought she hung the moon. About how one kid had declared her the prettiest teacher in the whole world, and another had given her a drawing of what was either a horse or a very disturbed-looking dog.

“Teaching kindergarten must be exhausting,” I said, watching her pull in the line for another cast.

“Some days,” she admitted. “But they’re honest, you know? When a five-year-old likes you, they like you. When they don’t, they tell you your breath smells like cheese and suggest you try mouthwash.”

“Brutal.”

“Refreshing, actually.” She paused, glancing at me. “Adults are trickier. They lie more.”

Her smile faded slightly when she said it. I didn’t like the look in her eyes. It was too familiar. Too close to things I didn’t talk about either.

“People leave,” I said without meaning to.

Ellie’s casting motion stuttered. “What?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Try again. You’re getting the hang of it.”

But she was looking at me now with those big, honest eyes, and I could practically see her brain working. See her filing away that little crack in my armor for later examination.

She didn’t push, though. Just nodded and cast again.

“Keep your elbow tucked,” I said. “Back smooth. No wrist flick.”

She nodded, her shoulder brushing my chest. She gave a small shiver.

“Cold?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “I know it’s summer, but this river sometimes doesn’t know that.”

“Just a little bit,” she said, not turning around. “Or nerves. Hard to tell.”

God help me, I couldn’t stop myself from moving. From wrapping my arms around her in a way that had nothing to do with teaching her how to fish. I should have backed off. But instead, I adjusted her grip again, fingers skimming over hers.

Every time I touched her, something inside me said to do it again. And again.

Every time she bit her lip or glanced up at me with those wide, curious eyes, I had to remind myself why I didn’t get involved.

Why I couldn’t.

I just kept guiding her through the motions.

We practiced cast after cast, and slowly, her line started to fly straighter.

Smoother. Closer to something that might actually catch a fish someday.

She managed to stay upright the entire time—which was probably for the best, because if she’d ended up soaked and pressed against me again, I might’ve forgotten every rule I had about women.

The morning wore on. She never caught anything, but she got close a few times. Close enough to feel the fish hit the line, close enough to get excited and then disappointed when it got away.

“I’m hopeless,” she said finally, reeling in her line as the sun started to sink toward the mountains.

“You’re not hopeless.” I meant it. “You’re just learning. And you’re getting better.

“Don’t lie to me, Nate, I can actually hear the trees laughing.”

“They’re impressed. Big fans of perseverance.”

She laughed. “My grandfather would have been so embarrassed.”

“Your grandfather would have been proud that you tried.” The words came out before I could stop them, and she looked up at me with surprise.

“You think so?”

“I know so. It takes guts to try something new. Especially something that meant a lot to someone you loved.”

She was quiet for a moment. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why do you guide? I mean, you’re good at it, but you don’t seem to particularly enjoy people.”

I considered how much truth to give her. “It’s easy. Most people who come here to fish, don’t talk much.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I guess I ruined the winnings streak for you.”

I smiled at her for the first time that day. “Today was different.”

“Score one for the city girl. But seriously, after a day of fishing, what do you do?”

I didn’t know if she was working up the nerve to ask me to dinner or what.

I’d had that happen a time or two, but I didn’t hook up with women who were just passing through.

I didn’t hook up with women period. I’d sworn off them.

The next few days standing beside her in ice cold water waiting for the fish to bite would be enough strain on my control.

“I go back to my cabin and my dog and pretend tourists don’t exist.”

She laughed, but it was softer this time. “It sounds lonely.”

It was. But lonely was safe. Lonely meant no one could disappoint you, use you, or leave you when things got complicated.

“I like quiet,” I said instead.

“I used to think I did too. But I think maybe I was just scared of noise.”

I didn’t ask what she meant. Didn’t want to know what had made this woman—this vibrant, funny, determined woman—afraid of making noise.

The sun was now directly over head and I noticed the pink creeping across her nose.

“That’s enough for today.” I took the rod from her and started breaking it down.

“Already?” She looked disappointed. “I was just starting to get the hang of it.”

“Your nose is getting red,” I said, nodding toward her face. “Too much sun for your first day. You’ll burn like toast if we keep going.”

She touched her nose self-consciously. “I forgot sunscreen. Kindergarten teacher fail.”

“City girl fail,” I corrected, feeling another smile surfacing. “Come on, I’ll walk you back.”

We walked back toward the lodge in comfortable silence. She’d survived her first day of fishing without drowning, impaling anyone else, or giving up. That put her ahead of about half my clients.

As the lodge where she was staying came into view, she turned to me. “Thanks. I know I’m basically your worst student, but I really appreciate you not, like, abandoning me in the river.”

I shrugged. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

A beat of silence passed between us. Then—

“Same time tomorrow? I promise not to start without you.” Her voice was soft, hopeful as if afraid she’d scared me off. I felt something I didn’t want to name settle low in my gut.

I should’ve said no. Should’ve told her to ask for a different guide. Someone with a better attitude. Someone who might take up her unspoken offer of dinner.

That thought sent a surge of anger through me. “Yeah,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

She beamed.

And I knew then—clear as the cold river behind me—that this woman was going to ruin whatever peace I’d clawed together over the last few months.